What Happens in Perros Stays in Perros
by HDKingsbury
Summary: From the fertile imagination of my good friend, Lizzy. Sparks fly as Anatole and Carlotta come to Perros for Erik & Christine's wedding. Based upon characters and situations in Variations on a Theme of Leroux, and rated M with good reason.
1. The Arrival

**"What Happens in Perros Stays in Perros"  
By MadLizzy**

Based upon characters and incidents from _Variations on a Theme of Leroux_ by HDKingsbury

This is a work of fiction, and is based upon characters in Gaston Leroux's _The Phantom of the Opera_. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2006  
Mad Lizzy

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, or other, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the authors.

**Setting the Stage:** This short romantic comedy is written by my very good friend and beta extraordinaire, MadLizzy. It is based upon characters and incidents found in my story, Variations on a Theme of Leroux, and takes place in Perros several days before the wedding of Erik duBois and Christine Daaé. Anatole Garron and La Carlotta have become quite friendly, and have come to Perros for the wedding. They have taken rooms at The Inn of the Setting Sun, and have decided to take this time to become "better acquainted." This is a humorous story with adult situations.

* * *

_The Arrival  
_  
A few days before Erik and Christine were to be wed, Anatole watched in silent amazement as the porters at the Inn of the Setting Sun continued brining Carlotta's trunks and luggage into the suite. A seemingly endless procession of bearers cringed under La Carlotta's demands.

"That is fragile!" she snarled at one hapless young man. "You! You there, with the hatboxes. Señora Ura will take them," she directed, pointing to her maid.

"Señora Ura," Anatole muttered, rolling his eyes. "The she-bear." _She'd have to be formidable, to put up with La Carlotta_, he thought.

Carlotta saw him standing in the doorway, and her demeanor instantly changed. "Anatole!" she trilled, extending her hand as she glided towards him. "How delightful to see you! Have you been standing there a long time?"

"I'd wait an eternity for a moment of your time," he responded as he took her hand, drawing her closer to him. His eyes widened as he realized she was blushing.

"Oh, Anatole!" she cooed. "You say the sweetest things!" She led him to the divan, tossing aside her hand-warmer as she crossed the room. Sra. Ura caught it on the fly, and waited as the Spanish diva removed the stickpins from her hat. Ura knew it would be flung in her direction shortly, and La Carlotta did not disappoint.

"Ura!" Carlotta said harshly. "Order tea."

"Si, Señora," Ura replied quietly, giving Anatole the once-over before leaving. She knew he was a ladies' man, but she wondered if he had met his match with the man-eating diva.

"Carlotta," Anatole began nervously. "There's something you must know about the rooms."

"Yes?" she said, folding her hands daintily in her lap. She leaned forward as he spoke, and smiled attentively at him.

In spite of his better judgment, he found himself drawn to her like a moth to a flame. He opened his mouth to speak, but he was lost in her dark brown eyes.

"You wanted to say something?" she prompted, delighted with the effect she was having on him.

He opened and closed his mouth, trying to remember what it was he wanted to say. "Oh! That," he said, swallowing. "I wanted you to know that I did not request this arrangement."

"Is there something wrong with the arrangement?" she asked, her face an unreadable mask of politeness.

"Um, well," he started. "The rooms. They adjoin."

She shook her head slightly, indicating that she did not understand.

"I would never presume," he stuttered. "I mean, it wouldn't be proper."

"My dear Anatole," she said liltingly. "We are both adults, yes?"

"We are," he acknowledged, unsure of where she was going with this new strategy of hers.

"And I assume you are no stranger to a lady's boudoir?"

"Well…" he said, loosening his cravat. He searched the room for the quickest exit. _The window,_ he thought. _I can jump out the window. This is only the third floor._

"I had Ura specify the arrangements," she said, handing him the key to the adjoining door. "She has her own room on the servants' floor."

He felt the blood rush to his ears, and other parts of his body as well. As if on cue, Ura ushered in a waiter with a teacart. Carlotta shooed them away and devoted her full attention to Anatole.

"Now, my dear, you must rest. We've had a long journey, and you haven't fully recovered from your wounds. Lie back on the cushions, and put up your feet," she told him, pushing on his shoulders when he did not immediately comply. Despite his protests, she removed his shoes and looked at them a moment before commenting. "My, what big feet you have!" she said seductively, holding up his size fourteens for show.

She held them out to Ura, who also looked at his shoes appreciatively. "Be sure you set these out tonight; they are scuffed. They will never do for the wedding."

"Please don't," Anatole said, having found his voice at last. As Carlotta covered his legs with a lap robe, he continued. "I brought other shoes. If you set them out, they will disappear."

"Nonsense!" Carlotta replied. "They will be polished during the night, and returned before dawn.

He scoffed. "Not in my experience."

"As you wish," she said, snapping her fingers at Ura. Ura took the shoes into Anatolia's room discreetly, and disappeared.

Anatole was certain that Ura remained within earshot, like a personal slave from Roman times, but at least she was out of sight. "Carlotta," he said. "I'm glad you came with me. Christine will be thrilled that you have come to her wedding."

"How could I not attend my best friend's wedding?" Carlotta replied sweetly. "I am very fond of her, you know."

Anatole choked on his tea. He well-remembered how jealous Carlotta had been of Christine, and how relieved she seemed when he explained that he was like a big brother to the sensational young singer as well as being a close friend of Christine's fiancé. When he could speak, he said, "You're constantly surprising me, Carlotta."

She put her hand on his thigh, a little too familiarly. He sat up straight at her touch. "I have not even begun to reveal my secrets to you, Anatole. I think that, before we return to Paris, you will be a very happy man."

-0-0-0-

_Come into my Parlor_

"Thank you," Anatole said to the chambermaid, who curtsied crisply and giggled like the teenager she was.

She finished turning down his bed and stoked the fire far longer than necessary, looking around to see if there was anything else that needed doing that would allow her to stay in the famous singer's suite a few more minutes. "Laundry!" she blurted. "I mean, have you any washing you'd like for me to take care of, sir?"

He was accustomed to this reaction, but it pleased him no end, seeing the way he affected women. Carlotta and Christine were among the few who hadn't acted giddy around him. Christine had already fallen in love with Erik by the time they met, so she never thought of him as anything more than a friend, but Carlotta was different. He wasn't sure what to make of her.

"I'm sorry," he said, when he realized the chambermaid was waiting for an answer. "What did you say?"

"Laundry, sir. I'd like to wash you--your…I mean, take you…that is, your laundry, sir." She twisted her apron anxiously with both hands.

He could tell she was flustered, so he spoke soothingly to calm her down. "Thank you, but that won't be necessary." He had learned the hard way that when he sent out his laundry, it never came back. After losing a dozen pairs of underclothes, the man finally realized that to some people, his laundry was memorabilia. Such was the price of fame.

He wondered if Carlotta had this problem, too, but that led to thoughts of Carlotta's unmentionables, and then to thoughts of Carlotta in her unmentionables – which led to thoughts of Carlotta out of her unmentionables, which could only lead to trouble. Of that, he was sure.

A light tap on the door caught his attention. "Dr. Bret! What a nice surprise," Anatole said, shaking the good doctor's hand. "Won't you come in? You're just in time to join me for a cognac." He crossed the room and raised a decanter questioningly.

"Another time, perhaps," the doctor replied warmly. "I am here professionally."

"I don't understand. I didn't call for you," Anatole responded, handing Bret a snifter of cognac in spite of his refusal.

"The summons was from La Carlotta. Her personal servant, Sra. Ura, told me it was most urgent that you be seen by a physician. Pulled me away from my supper, she did," he added with a snort.

"You must be the doctor," Carlotta said charmingly, as she floated through the adjoining door on a cloud of lavender silk – yards and yards of fabric that rustled when she moved.

They gulped down their cognac in one swallow as she advanced upon them.

"Carlotta," Anatole said. "Why did you send for Dr. Bret? I told you, I feel fine."

"Oh, do forgive me," she said coquettishly. "I have only your best interests at heart! After our long trip, I wanted to be certain you were…up to… the strenuous activities that the next few days will entail."

Anatole and Bret exchanged glances as Carlotta attached herself to Anatole's arm.

"Carlotta," Anatole said, his jaw set firmly. "This will never do. I can't have you calling doctors and…God knows who else on a whim! I'm fine, I tell you. You pulled Bret away from his supper for this."

"Forgive me," Carlotta said, pursing her lips and affecting what she hoped was a contrite look. "I must remember to beat Ura for disturbing you! I only meant for you to come at your earliest convenience. I didn't intend for her to imply it was a matter of life or death." She extended her hand to him, hoping the gesture of familiarity would appease him.

It worked. "Señora, I assure you, it is my privilege to answer the call of the great diva, La Carlotta herself," he said, lightly grasping her hand in friendship.

"Even for a fool's errand?" Anatole muttered.

"Call me an old fool, then," Bret said, standing tall. "It's not every day my poor supper is interrupted by the most famous singers in all of France."

"Only France, doctor?" Carlotta asked pointedly, raising an eyebrow.

"Italy…Spain…all of Europe!" he babbled.

Anatole folded his arms across his chest. "I believe you were here on business," he said flatly.

"What seems to be the problem?" he asked, releasing Carlotta's hand and opening his little black bag.

"There is no prob—" Anatole said before he was interrupted.

"He would never complain," Carlotta explained, speaking directly to the doctor, "but he seems to be in pain."

"How do you know this?" the doctor said, gesturing for Anatole to sit.

Anatole rolled his eyes, but he sat. "There's nothing wrong with—"

"He tires easily," Carlotta said worriedly. "He holds his side, and he is short-tempered. And he barely eats enough to stay alive! He opens his mouth to speak, but there are no words! And when he sings…well, he doesn't have the volume he once had."

"That is to be expected, Señora. He had a few cracked ribs, but they should be nearly mended by now."

"If you ask me, I'm—"

"How soon can he return to his normal activities?" she asked Dr. Bret, ignoring Anatole.

"He knows his own limits. I'd say, he can do whatever he feels like doing," he said reassuringly.

"Anything he feels like…" she mused, her face lighting up as a myriad of ideas occurred to her.

"Yes, anything at all. Of course, I doubt he'll feel like following the hunt or chopping wood. Normal activities—using common sense, of course—should be fine."

"Normal activities…" she repeated. "Thank you, doctor. You may go now," she said, waving him away with the back of her hand.

"Carlotta!" Anatole exclaimed. "That is enough! You can't go around dismissing people as if they are beneath you! Dr. Bret is my friend. He saved my life!" Once he started, there was no stopping him. "And another thing! There will be no more talk about beating servants – or anyone else for that matter! People who perform a service for you are human beings, and will be treated with the same consideration you would give me."

"There he goes again," she whimpered. "Forgive me, doctor. I don't know where my manners are. It's just that…just that…" she forced a tear from her eye, "I've been so worried about him."

"I wouldn't have gotten far as a doctor if I took offense easily, Señora," Bret said kindly. "I understand that this has been a hardship on all concerned." He glared at Anatole, silently castigating him for speaking harshly to La Carlotta.

"Thank you, thank you, you are most generous," she sniffled, dabbing the corners of her eyes with a lavender handkerchief. "Gentlemen, if you will excuse me, I will bother you no longer." She floated through the doorway, leaving it ajar.

"You cad!" Bret said, smacking Anatole on his good shoulder. "How could you speak to her that way?"

"I didn't do—"

"You reduced that lady to tears!" Bret stammered, slamming his bag closed. "You owe her an apology!" he huffed. "The sooner, the better."

"I'll do the very best I can," Anatole said with grim determination. "You'll be at the wedding, I assume?"

"Wouldn't miss it for the world," Bret replied, sighing. "Will she be there?"

"Christine? Of course."

"No! I mean, La Carlotta," he said, a dazed look upon his face.

"Naturally," he said. Seeing that the doctor was awe-struck, he added, "I am escorting her."

"Then you'd better make amends, before someone else snatches her away from you…you brute."

"Thank you," Anatole said woodenly, as he showed the doctor to the door. "It was a pleasure seeing you again."

Once the doctor was gone, Anatole turned on his heel and dashed straight to Carlotta's room.

-0-0-0-

_Said the Spider to the Fly  
_

Carlotta was weeping on the fainting sofa when Anatole burst through the door. His steeled his resolve, and steamed across the room.

"Look here, Carlotta. That may work with other men, but it won't work with me. I know exactly what you're up to!"

She looked up at him innocently, questioningly.

"Stop that! You've got an onion in that handkerchief, don't you? You forget, I know all the tricks of the trade."

She turned her palms up and showed him her empty hands.

"Then, it was pepper!" he exclaimed, snatching away the handkerchief. He held it close to his nose, sniffing for the telltale aroma of hot peppers, but instead he was met with her usual perfume, a heady blend of spice and mimosa. He held it closer to his nose and closed his eyes as he inhaled. It was intoxicating.

She wept harder, and his resolve crumbled.

He dropped to his knees and held her waist, looking up into her eyes. "Oh, Carlotta! I'm so sorry! I…I misjudged you. Can you ever forgive me?"

"Of course I can," she whispered, crushing his face into her impressive bosom. "But you're right about me, Anatole. I am a manipulative harpy. I never think of anyone's feelings but my own. I am a vindictive, hateful, mean old crone!"

"Don't say that!" he gasped. "You are not an old crone!"

She wailed, pushing him away from her, and fell back against the couch's plush cushions, covering her face with the crook of her elbow.

He couldn't help noticing how her bosom heaved as she sobbed. He got up from the floor and sat beside her, patting her hand. Finally, he leaned down and kissed the side of her head, and then her cheek, and before he knew it, he was kissing her lips and she was doing the most marvelous things with her tongue that he'd ever felt.

She grasped his shoulders and pivoted, and they fell onto the floor with a thump. He clutched his side and grimaced as pain shot through his tender ribs.

"Anatole!" she gasped, pulling open his shirt frantically. She felt his rib cage, satisfying herself that he was none the worse for wear. Her manic movements slowed down as she realized he was laughing gently.

"Why are you laughing?" she chuckled. "Doesn't it hurt?"

"It hurts like all hell," he said, rubbing his side.

"I don't understand."

"I'm wondering if this will curtail your plans for the evening."

She looked at him with what she hoped was a blank stare, feigning ignorance. "I have no idea what you mean," she said brazenly.

"I believe the phrase was, 'normal activities,' wasn't it?"

She blushed. "I had to make sure you're…strong enough for me."

He opened his mouth to speak, but the implications of what she had confessed began to sink in and he lost his train of thought. "Oh," he managed, with considerable effort.

"I admit, I am a difficult woman – more than most men can handle," she said. She locked eyes with him, and continued. "I never thought of myself, until now, as mean…"

"You're not!"

"—or selfish…"

"Never!"

"—or manipulative…"

"Um…" he said, realizing he was sitting on the floor holding her in his arms, when only moments ago, he was prepared to ream her out and send her packing.

"Very well," she laughed. "I'll grant you that one." Her hand was in his lap, and she rubbed a small circle in the fabric of his pants. "But…a difficult woman can be the most rewarding," she said.

"So I have heard," he replied, with a gulp.

"Let me show you, Anatole," she said, reaching past him to the bowl of fruit that was sitting on the low table. She extracted two cherries, and in an excruciatingly slow motion, she sucked them one at a time into her mouth. A moment later, she delicately removed the two stems, now tied into a single lovers' knot, and placed it in the palm of his hand. She swallowed the pits and smiled, batting her eyelashes while waiting for him to catch his breath.

"Well," he said at last. "That is hard to top."

"Oh," she said, tracing a tented outline in his trousers, "I'm sure you have something comparable."

-0-0-0-

To be continued...


	2. Tener Mono de Besos

**What Happens in Perros, Stays in Perros  
_Variation on Variations:  
The Continued Sexcapades of  
Anatole and Carlotta at the Inn of the Setting Sun_**

**Please note!** Before you start reading, there's a reason this story has an M rating. Just wanted to make sure everyone's aware of this. And now, let the fun begin!

* * *

Chapter 2: _Tener Mono de Besos_

Anatole shook his head, as he sat on the floor leaning against the sofa. He couldn't believe he was in this position. Carlotta fit snuggly into his arms like a puzzle piece. It surprised him, how well she fit, and how good she felt.

She sighed contently and whispered, _"¡Tengo mono d e besos! _I must have your kisses," she said liltingly.

"Hold on a minute, Carlotta," Anatole said, shifting uncomfortably. "I'm not that kind of man."

"Who are you kidding?" she said, tapping him on the top of the head.

_God, but she is beautiful when she is angry, _he thought, _which is a good thing, considering that she is angry most of the time. She's always going off the deep end with the slightest provocation. Do I really want this kind of entanglement in my life, at this time? Ever? I'm at the height of my career. I should be making hay while the sun shines...or running away as fast as I can._

_Wassa matta wit' him,_ she wondered. _You theenk hee's some kinda boy, the way he is acting. Wha's he waiting for? An invitation? Ah, I know. I'll lean forward, and remind him of what I have to offer. That will get his attention. _She leaned forward, pretending to smooth her skirt, and nearly fell out of her dress.

Anatole was spellbound. He'd never seen such plump pleasure mounds before…well, not in a couple of months, at any rate. He'd been so preoccupied helping Christine and Erik that he'd had little time for, ahem, recreational pursuits. Put frankly, he was sex starved, and here was Carlotta, offering herself like a venereal sacrifice to the temple god. He watched the rise and fall of her heaving bosom, transfixed. Seemingly with a will of its own, his hand slipped around her bodice and dipped into the cleft between her breasts.

Carlotta sighed; it was music to his ears. He brushed his lips across her shoulder to the juncture with her throat, and nibbled as he murmured. "What is that perfume you're wearing?" he asked.

"Molinard makes it. It's my signature blend," she replied breathlessly, as she pushed herself against him. "You like?"

"I like," he said, tasting her just beneath the edge of her jaw. "It goes right to my head."

"Is that what I feel in my lower back?" she teased.

"Um...excuse me," he said, "But the effect you have on me, is…devastating."

"Devastating?" she said, holding his groping hand in place. "We can't have that, can we?" She lay back in his arms, forcing him to bend over her since his hand was trapped.

Not that he was complaining; in fact, he wanted to venture further. He put his other arm all the way around her, and with his free hand, he quietly undid the buttons that were impeding his explorations. She tittered when she felt the dress give way, exposing her shoulders – and more.

"Devastating," he said, kissing her forehead. _God, how I want to taste those melons,_ he thought.

Carlotta allowed the top of her dress to slip further down, pretending not to notice, wondering why he was only kissing her forehead when there was so much more she had to offer. She lay back, letting him support her full weight now. She inhaled deeply, confidant that she would be irresistible in this pose. She glanced down quickly, to ensure that the areolas of her magnificent breasts were fully exposed.

_Take it slow, old man. Make her ask for it,_ he warned himself, trying to focus his attention on her face. His eyes flashed as the temperature rose, and he smiled as he removed the combs that were holding up her long, ebony hair. He pulled her hair down around her shoulders, watching it cascade into all the places he longed to touch.

She shook her head, ostensibly to free her long locks, but she knew what would happen elsewhere as her head was shaking.

This was more than he could bear. Anatole emitted a garbled groan and grasped her shoulders. He pulled her to him, grinding her bare breasts into his jacket. He kissed her long and hard, the way a strong-willed woman needs to be kissed, and when he had finished, she pulled him back for more.

Carlotta tugged on Anatole until she was flat on the floor, bringing him with her, and ran her hands through his immaculately styled, wavy hair. When she felt him press against her, she rolled over and took him with her. She sat straddling him, holding his hands to her breasts, and she purred, "Love me, or I will die."

"Can't have that," he said, his trained voice reedy as La Carlotta explored him with her fingers. His reputation as a ladies' man was so legendary that his significant anatomy had its own nickname ("The Thing"), its own legends (some set to music), and its own fan club (the Thingamajigs). Seeing it for the first time often had an unpredictable affect on women. Some wept at the mere sight of it. He waited as patiently as possible for Carlotta to make her discovery.

She unbuttoned his trousers and freed him, sighing contently as she watched him grow. He sprang forth like a sapling that has been tied down, and she watched, spellbound, as the length of him bobbed up and down before coming to rest.

"Eh," she said at last, shrugging her shoulders. "I've seen better." She studied it like a piece of meat waiting to be tossed on the grill.

"You have not!" Anatole protested. This was the one reaction he hadn't encountered before. He breathed harder now that his reputation was on the line.

"Oh, I'm sure it's perfectly adequate," she said, yawning, as she shimmied back into her dress. Once she had buttoned it, she smiled beatifically at him and said, "Oh! Forgive me. Where are my manners? I am sure it's perfectly fine for most women, Anatole. You have nothing to be ashamed of."

"What?" he sputtered, nearly choking on his spittle. "I'll have you know, no one has complained so far!"

"That's nice," she said, rolling her eyes skeptically.

"Carlotta, you can't just dismiss me like this," he said. "You have to give me a chance."

"I donn know," she said, putting a finger to her lips. "I will 'ave to consider it. _¡Perdóneme!"_ She stood up and smoothed the wrinkles from her dress as she left the room.

"Wait a minute!" Anatole said, shoving The Thing back into its resting place. He jumped to his feet, ignoring the burning pain in his side, and strode across the room in pursuit of Carlotta.

Carlotta made it into her bedroom just ahead of him. She closed the door and locked it behind her, and tried to ignore his knocking as she sank against the solid wood. _¡Díos mío!_ she thought, clamping a hand over her mouth. _It's even better than I imagined._

"Carlotta!" Anatole cried. "Haven't you ever heard that size doesn't matter?"

"_No importa._ You must go now," she said, opening the door enough for him to see her standing with her forearm draped dramatically across her forehead. "I 'ave a headache."

He blanched, and blinked uncomprehendingly, unaccustomed as he was to rejection. "Allow me to bring you a cup of tea," he offered, falling back on etiquette.

"Pah!" she said, waving her hand.

"I know," he said, catching that hand and pulling her towards the sofa. "I could massage your neck. It works every time."

"Anatole, if this is a ploy to get me into—"

"Madame! I have only your best interests at heart, I assure you."

"I see," she said, giving in. She exited the bedroom and sat on the sofa, facing away from him, as he positioned himself behind her.

From where he stood, he had a good view of the scenery. _Don't look,_ he told himself, over and over again. _If you don't look, they have no power over you. _Of course, he couldn't help staring at what he'd begun to think of as a natural attraction: Carlotta's Twin Pleasure Peaks. _Two of the Eight Wonders of the World! In Perros! This weekend only!_

An uncomfortable silence soon grew warmer as he ran his fingers through her hair, massaging her scalp. Before long, she was cooing and murmuring in a way that guaranteed him she was satisfied. He moved lower down the back of her neck, along the sides of her throat, and skimmed over the surface of her shoulders. She felt completely relaxed underneath his hands.

He knelt behind her, and put his head against the side of hers. "Did anyone ever tell you that you're beautiful?" he sighed, his long fingers pointing towards The Wonders while his thumb massaged the backs of her shoulders.

"A few," she said, laughing quietly.

"Well, you are," he said, snuggling. "The first time I saw you, I said to myself, what is _she _doing here? She should be at La Scala."

"And I thought, _he _should be with me," she said softly.

He stopped massaging her shoulders and made circles with his fingertips, drawing them up her neck until his hands were on her cheeks. He gently turned her head towards his so he could kiss her, but before he could, she reached for his hand and began to kiss it softly, starting with the back of his hand and working her way to his fingers.

The Thing stirred, snapping to attention the moment she opened her lips and touched her tongue to the tips of his fingers. When she sucked two of his fingers into her mouth, far back into her warm little mouth, The Thing demanded attention. Anatole hopped over the back of the sofa and almost landed in Carlotta's lap.

He crushed her to him, and she wrapped her arms around him and returned his kiss. The Thing wanted more. It demanded more. It insisted on having more. Anatole groaned, and pulled away from Carlotta, looking at her questioningly. He still stung from her remarks about his adequacy.

"I'm feeling better now," she said, smiling up at him.

"That's good," Anatole said, sitting up and rubbing his side, pretending to be in pain. "I think I'll go lie down now."

"What's wrong? Is your wound hurting?" she asked worriedly.

"As a matter of fact—"

"Let me see," she said.

He attempted to stand, but sank back against the sofa, clutching his side. "Ow!" he said, wincing.

"The doctor--" Carlotta began.

"Not necessary," Anatole said, grimacing. "I'll be fine, I'm sure. If only—"

"What? Tell me what you need, and I will get it for you."

"I need to lie down, I think," he said. "But don't you worry. I can take care of myself."

"Nonsense!" Carlotta replied. "I will see to your every need."

She helped him to his feet, and inserted herself underneath his arm to support some of his weight for the long trek to his bedroom. Once there, he sat on the edge of the bed and watched, bemused, as she began to remove his clothing.

"I assure you, I am perfectly capable of—"

"This is my job," she snapped.

"Your job? How do you figure--"

"Someone has to take care of you. You aren't doing a very good job of looking after yourself."

"Carlotta! I'm a grown man! I do not need—"

"Yes," she said appreciatively. "I can see you are a grown man."

He smiled, relieved to know that The Thing was earning its keep. He lay back against the pillows and tried to look as inviting as he possibly could, under the circumstances. Wearing only his undergarments, he was at a disadvantage. Carlotta was still surrounded by yards and yards of purple silk. He had no idea how to begin to unwrap it, should it become necessary. He watched as she bustled around the room, turning down the gaslights, lighting candles, and adjusting the windows.

She paused at the wine cooler, and brought the wrapped bottle of champagne over to Anatole, along with two champagne stems. "A little champagne may make the pain go away," she said, immensely pleased with herself for showing Anatole how nurturing she could be. She petted his head, smoothing down his thick, wayward hair, before running her fingers through it again.

He pulled the covers up to his chin, modestly, and uncorked the champagne. A stream of pale, bubbly liquid shot out of the top, and ran down Anatole's hands. Carlotta caught as much of it as she could in the champagne glasses, and dragged the wine cooler closer to the bed before sitting next to Anatole.

"If I had known how delicate you are," she said temptingly, "I would have been more gentle with you." She wiped his hands with the edge of her silk shawl.

Anatole patted the bed next to him. "If you're cold…" he said suggestively, waggling his eyebrows.

"I'm not cold," she said, holding his face with both hands. She kissed him slowly, her tongue darting in and out with shallow thrusts, until he was clutching at her for more.

"Wait for me," she said breathlessly, taking her shawl and tying it around his eyes like a blindfold. "No peeking."

He drained his glass and whipped off his clothing, and climbed underneath the covers. He waited, and waited, and waited. Soon, he was nodding off, but at the crack of the whip, he was wide-awake and sitting straight up in bed. He ripped off the blindfold.

There, in the candlelight, stood Carlotta. She was wearing nothing but his tall bear fur hat and riding boots, and holding the bullwhip and lariat – his props from the Russian opera, _The Masked Prince of the Caucasus_. The Thing saw her, too, and it liked what it saw.

"My God, woman, you're magnificent!" he exclaimed, gazing at her with open admiration.

She stumbled across the room in his oversized boots, managing to look like a _femme fatale_ in spite of dancing with the wine cooler. She draped the whip around his neck and pulled him to her, and kissed the daylights out of him. "That's your appetizer," she vowed.

He was glad he was sitting as the room reeled around him.

She wrapped the lariat around the bedpost before kneeling in front of him. "Come to mamma," she said, crooking her finger irresistibly.

Carlotta stretched her mouth wide to fit his enormous between her lips, thankful for all those years of training as an opera singer. Learning to open one's throat had an unexpected bonus, considering Anatole's substantial girth and length.

With his reputation as a lover, she did not want to disappoint him. She was head over heels in love with him, and she knew it. If this was her one chance to be with him, then she wanted it to be a night he'd remember.

_"Querida," _he gasped as he held her head between his massive hands, and murmured, "My dear, sweet, wonderful woman."

She felt her own wetness as he plunged in and out of her mouth, and she played with her as she grasped him with her other hand, pacing herself to match him. He dug his heels into the rug on either side of her knees, and she knew he was near the edge. "Come for me," she demanded, and he lost control, spurting like a hot geyser as she also came, in her own hand. His seed was everywhere – her mouth, her hands, her breasts. Some she swallowed; some she rubbed on his shaft as he sank back into the pillows, spent, with his legs still dangling over the side of the bed. She looked in his eyes, licking her lips.

She stood up swung his legs up and onto the mattress. Quickly, before he knew what to think, she secured his wrists to the bedpost with both ends of the lariat. Slowly, she bent over, exposing her perfectly rounded backside to him as she picked up the bullwhip.

His eyes grew wide as she flicked it to show him the length of it. Light as a feather, the frayed ends of the whip dragged across his chest, across his stomach, and across his aching . He completely acquiesced to her, succumbing to her need for power.

_"Cariño,"_ she said coyly, as she straddled him. "I am going to you until you beg me to stop."

"You're--" he said, gulping as her knees dug into his sides, into his injured ribs.

"Yes!" she swore. "Until you can't stand it any more!"

"Carlotta—" he gasped.

"Anatole! Make love to me!"

"You're hurting me!" he bellowed, in his famous baritone. The windows reverberated with the volume.

She leaped off of him, and begged his forgiveness. "I'm sorry!" she said, over and over again, as she kissed his face, his side, his belly.

"It's all right," he said through gritted teeth. "If you'll release me—"

"Of course, my darling. Anything! Anything at all, to make you feel better." She removed the restraints, and kissed him a thousand times as he held his side.

"Carlotta," he said, pausing for the anticipated interruption.

After a moment of silence, she ventured to answer, _"¿Si, cariño?"_

"Exactly what did you have in mind for this weekend, if you consider this 'normal activity'?"

* * *

Author's Notes: Too wild for you? Not wild enough? Let us know!

_Tener mono_ (literally, "To have the monkey.") No, nothing to do with monkeys, but a useful phrase for when you simply must get a fix of something, as in, _I must have some Phantomy-goodness._

Maison Molinard has been a premiere perfume maker since 1849. It is located in Grasse, France -- the birthplace of the worldwide perfume industry.


	3. Mi Amante Ardiente

**What Happens in Perros, Stays in Perros**  
**_Variations on Variations:  
The Continued Sexcapades of  
Anatole and Carlotta at the Inn of the Setting Sun_**

* * *

Chapter 3: _Mi Amante Ardiente_

Carlotta stretched like a cat, flexing her fingers and toes as she extended the length of her body as far as she could. She sighed contentedly, and rolled on her side to face Anatole.

He slept soundly as the sun rose, casting a faint, early morning glow about the room. She draped her arm around him and said good morning to The Thing. It had served her well during the night, so she rewarded it with a kiss.

"Must sleep now," Anatole said groggily, pulling her arm over his waist.

"Ees that the way you greet all your lady friends after you've had your way with them?" Carlotta teased.

"What lady friends? There's no one besides you," he murmured, stroking her long black hair. He kissed her forehead and settled into the pillows, pulling her with him.

Carlotta drew circles in the hair on Anatole's chest and blew out a breath protractedly.

The air current across Anatole's bare nipples made him shiver. "You can't possibly be…can you? Not after last night," he said, smiling. The Thing sprang into play, eager for action.

She brushed her lips across his, and headed south, pausing to minister tender kisses over his bruised ribs. Anatole lifted his head and watched as she took her time arriving at her ultimate destination.

"This Thing of yours…" she started, her voice catching in her throat as she mounted him. "I think he and I are going to be very good friends."

"You already are," he said, laughing quietly.

She took her time, letting Anatole become fully awake so he could appreciate her more. She sheathed him deeply inside herself and then withdrew, exposing the length of him to the cool morning air, until he couldn't stand it any longer. He grasped her hips tightly, holding her against him while he pushed and pulled to control the tempo as much as possible. It wouldn't do to have this end too quickly.

Carlotta leaned forward so that her full, round breasts grazed Anatole's face as she thrust. He pulled her forward, so that he could kiss them as she rode him like a banshee. She leaned into him, so that every inch of him stimulated her in all the right places. He stroked one breast, grazing her taut nipple with his thumb, while he reached behind her and pushed on her buttocks, making the connection even more powerful. He kissed her neck and throat, sucking at it hungrily.

Her trained voice reaching a crescendo as she deepened her thrusts, "I am dying!" she gasped, shuddering as her walls milked Anatole for all he was worth. She rested her head on his chest, holding his shoulders tight, and made the small yummy noises he recognized as satisfaction.

"Not yet," he said, grinding her against him. He gritted his teeth as he pumped harder and harder, until the tightness in the center of his being exploded. He poured into her, saying, "My diva, my diva." After a moment to recover, he kissed her deeply and tangled his fingers in her hair, as he whispered, "Why it take us so long to try this?"

"What do you mean?" she asked, focusing her dark brown eyes on the fine line above his brow. This close, she could see tiny laugh lines developing around his eyes and the corners of his mouth, all of which required kissing.

"Why didn't we see it when we first met? You and I are good together."

"I knew we'd be good together. It took you longer to figure it out."

He thought back guiltily to the time he diverted her attention to the tenor, Pietro Sospenzo, and recalled telling Christine that Carlotta had the personality of a snake on a hot rock. He tightened his hold possessively. "I was an idiot," he said decisively.

"Yes, but you are _my_ idiot," she said meaningfully, as she slithered off of him and curled herself around him.

She draped a leg over him and pulled up the covers, tucking them in. "What time do we have to be at the church?" she muttered.

"We have plenty of time," he answered, snuggling with her.

"Let's take a walk along the beach in a little while," she said quietly. "I've heard there's a little chapel that you can only reach at low tide."

"What's so special about it?" Anatole asked, warning bells clanging for no apparent reason.

"There's a statue I want to see, a statue of St. Guirec. I overheard the locals speaking about it," she explained.

"Is he the patron of sopranos?" Anatole said jokingly.

"No, nothing like that," Carlotta replied, grinning.

"The patron of wanton baritones?" he asked, his curiosity piqued.

"You are having a laugh at my expense," she said, pretending to be miffed. "It would serve you right if I cast a spell on you. A very powerful one," she said with certainty, adding as an afterthought, "with rosemary."

"It won't be necessary. I assure you, I am completely under your spell," he told her, as he drew a finger along the midline of her abdomen, resting at her navel."Good," she sighed, draping herself over him.

They rested, quietly holding each other, as Anatole combed her hair out of his face with his finger. He rolled onto his side, taking Carlotta with him, and opened the drawer of the nightstand, pulling out a small box.

"I have something for you," he said, looking unsure of himself. "I hope you'll like it."

She squealed and sat up, waiting patiently, trying not to appear over-eager. He held onto the box as if reconsidering giving it to her, and finally opened the lid before turning it and presenting it to her.

Inside was a brooch, featuring a deep purple amethyst stone. The flat surface of the stone was carved with forget-me-nots, each set with small rose-cut diamonds. The setting was yellow gold, which was engraved with an art nouveau design featuring a trailing vine. It was exquisite.

"Anatole!" she exclaimed. "I love it!" She kissed him once, twice, three times for luck. "But…forget-me-nots? Are you trying to tell me something?"

He cleared his throat. "The jeweler said it symbolized affection and respect," he replied, his face turning an attractive rosy shade.

"Mmmm," Carlotta nodded, biting her lip. _And true love_, she thought. _This is going too well_, she worried. _Something is bound to 'appen. _

_Idiot!_ Anatole fretted, feeling an odd, warm sensation rising in his throat like gorge. _Did the jeweler get it wrong? What if I have just asked her to marry me, and I don't even know it? Who knows how these women from Seville think. _Realizing he was beginning to hyperventilate, he flexed his fingers and toes, trying to restore circulation. He ventured a question.

"I didn't know stones had symbolism," he said nervously. "What does it mean to you?"

"It means you are a very thoughtful lover, to give me such a pretty brooch," she cooed, wrapping her arms around his neck and rubbing her check against his. _I must get to that statue, and soon. _

The feeling was beginning to return to his fingers. _Whew! _he thought, making a note to have a talk with that jeweler. That was a close one.

Sra Ura tapped quietly on the door, waiting for Carlotta's command to enter before bringing in the breakfast tray. Warm croissants, a variety of jams and jellies, and a pot of hot chocolate filled the room with a mouth-watering aroma.

"Thank you," Carlotta said sweetly, as Ura departed, quiet as a mouse.

Anatole cocked his eyebrow. Carlotta was actually thanking her personal maid. Had he heard correctly?

"Wipe that smirk off your face," she said, her luscious lips forming an irresistible moue. "How can I be anything but nice, when I feel this happy?"

"Then I must endeavor to keep you happy," he said, pulling her close enough to devour.

"You spoil me," she said, pushing against his shoulders, pretending to resist until she finally gave in and kissed him back. His kisses left her breathless, and aching for more. She forced herself away from him, and fingering the brooch, she said, "I have a present for you, too."

"Really?" Anatole asked, like a kid at Christmas. "What did you get me?"

"Come here," she said warmly, taking the jam off the breakfast tray, "and let me show you, _mi amante ardiente_."

Anatole's eyes widened with surprise as Carlotta began to show him what they could do in bed with comestibles. "This is much better than a brooch," he said, pulling her close.

* * *

**  
Author's Notes:**

The reference to the pale blue Rosemary flower in the prayer of the "Third Day" has a significant dual meaning -- _ros marinus_ ("the dew of the sea") is the ancient Latin name for the Mediterranean Rosemary herb much used in spells for female domination and in Peaceful Home spells -- but the sound of the words also makes a pun with the idea of a Rose of the Virgin Mary (whose sacred flower is the Rose), and so the herb, not at all related to Roses, has come to symbolize certain aspects of Mary, especially her sea-borne and home-strengthening apparitions.

_Mi amante ardiente_ translates as "my ardent lover" (or zealous, passionate, enthusiastic lover). Did I get that right?

There will probably be one more chapter to this little interlude. Thank you to everyone who is reading and enjoying our little romp, and especially to those of you who take the time to leave feedback. Your comments are appreciated!

HDKingsbury & MadLizzy


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